the songs of surrender
by Rhodanum
Summary: A Firebender girl desperately seeking her father, a young Avatar in training, keen to meet his Waterbending teacher and a Prince of the Northern Water Tribe, traveling the world and learning from Masters with unique styles. All of them seek the same man - Don Wei, Waterbending Master, pro-bending manager and Republic City's most ruthless businessman. [Fusion AU].


**Disclaimer:** All characters and settings portrayed in this work of fiction belong to _Sav! The World Productions_ and _Viacom_. I'm merely fooling around with the characters and will put them back with as little wear and tear as possible.  
**Canons:** Oban Star Racers / Avatar The Last Airbender / The Legend of Korra Fusion AU  
**Character(s): **Eva Wei, Don Wei, Rick Thunderbolt, Maya Wei, Jordan Wilde, Aikka  
**Relationship:** Eva Wei/Jordan Wilde/Aikka, Don Wei/Rick Thunderbolt, Don Wei/Maya Wei  
**Rating:** M  
**Author's Notes:** you can find artwork for this fic by the lovely **rebekahs_art** on my Tumblr, at _rhodanum {dot} Tumblr {dot} com  
_

* * *

**the songs of surrender**

* * *

_"Of Mastery, I know only this, young bender. When the time comes, close your eyes and leap. Give yourself to the winding airs, to the churning waters, to the rumbling earth, to the roaring flames, to the river of light that binds us all. _

_Only in surrender will you come to understanding. Only in freefall will you know the truth." _

**—Avatar Ilah | Commentaries for a New Spiritual Age**

* * *

**chapter I: agni's flames, la's waters**

* * *

**Wei Estate, southern Earth Kingdom, 257 AG***

There is a time-honored blessing, made in the heat of frustration, that each parent wishes upon their own offspring, sooner or later:

_"May you have a child just like you!"_

Maya's mother — may Agni's light ever shine upon her — used to say this when her young daughter would come tromping in, covered in mud from head to toe, the hem of her silk kimono torn beyond repair. It was always after a rowdy game with the stable-boys, a chase around the garden or even a fist-fight. Lady Jyoti always looked pained, as if wondering what sin she could have committed against the ancestors, to be gifted with such a wild-flame of a girl.

Lord Tozen, for his part… well, there's little point in remembering how her father took it all. As far as Maya is concerned, he's a long-closed chapter, one she'll never have to revisit for as long as she lives.

Reaching down, Maya runs her fingers over the soft sheets on the child-sized bed. The distinctly _empty _child-sized bed, where a certain little girl was supposed to be enjoying her afternoon nap.

_'Mama, if you could see me now…' _she thinks wryly, abandoning the bed and walking out of Eva's room. Lady Jyoti would have adored her granddaughter, in the fond, indulgent way of grandmothers the world over. Even if she would've perhaps never approved of Maya's husband anymore than Lord Tozen did. But her mother never lived to see Maya betrothed, much less eloping — _"the scandal of the social season, my dear, they're talking about it even in the Fire-Court!", _Zohara had written, during those whirlwind days, sounding delighted that her friend's bold ways had given her ample gossip material. _"Tell me, did you truly best Lord Tozen in an Agni Kai? He denies it up and down, but we both know what he would choose between blatant lies and losing face."_

Satsu is still in the doorway, wringing her hands and looking very much on the verge of panic. Not that Maya can blame her — the last time Eva ran away from her scheduled afternoon nap, they found her up on the roof, after she somehow managed to claw her way up through one of the storm-drains.

"Don't worry," she says with a small, warm smile, reaching out and touching Satsu's shoulder. "We'll find her soon enough."

"It's my fault, my lady" the maid sniffles, wiping at the corners of her eyes, plump face trembling with the effort it takes her to keep her tears in check. "I should've kept closer watch."

"She would have slipped out regardless, believe me." Giving Satsu one last, encouraging pat, Maya walks out of the room. "If you want to help, go and look in the kitchens."

The maid bows deeply, nearly tripping over her own two feet as she rushes over to the servants' quarters.

Still smiling and shaking her head, Maya makes her own way down the hallway with long, firm strides. Satsu has been with them for less than three months now and she's still shy and timorous, in the way of poor girls from equally poor villages, unsure if they've thrown themselves from the pan right into the open flames. Yet one more of the myriad differences Maya still runs into, well over five years after leaving the Fire Nation. In her homeland, from rich to poor, pride is still taught in almost the same way as literature and arithmetic and the proper katas of a bending form.

Eva isn't in the main room or the hallway or the sunroom, not that Maya truly expected to find her there. She's also not hiding underneath the engawa*, trying to dig up worms in the dark, shaded soil underneath the house, as was the case last time.

The merciless afternoon sun is blazing overhead when Maya emerges from underneath the awning, gravel crunching underneath her wooden sandals. A quick visual inspection shows no mischievous little girls up on the shingled roof, so there's only one place left to search.

Surrounded by high walls on three sides and a wooden veranda on the other, the inner garden is the most private and intimate section of the entire estate. It's much smaller than the gardens of Lord Tozen's palatial residence, but Maya cherishes it a thousand times more, because it was built and seeded and grown by her husband's love. An ornamental water-fountain stands at the center, home to a small family of turtle-ducks, shaded by silver willows and wisterias. Green hedges conceal the walls and the garden itself is a well-judged riot of trees and flowers — midnight roses and chrysanthemums and camellias and fire lilies, carefully looked-after and seeded in earthenware pots, filled with soil from the Fire Nation. Don had the entire garden planted as a wedding-gift for her, a small, familiar corner right in the middle of the Earth Kingdom, so that it might ease Maya's homesickness.

The fire lilies are in full-bloom, so close to the summer solstice, flooding the entire garden with their sharp sweetness. Maya bends down to gently touch the petals of a particularly beautiful flower, reds bleeding into golden yellows and purples and faded pinks. Each year, two weeks before the solstice, she and her husband invite close friends for a blossom-viewing party, the house filling up with light and laughter.

And speaking of laughter, she can hear just that, through the shrubbery — two _very _familiar voices. Her smile widening, Maya walks back to the house, where a pale-faced Satsu is kneeling in the dirt and looking as if she intends to crawl right underneath the engawa.

"No need for that. She's with her father, as safe as can be."

"Oh thank the ancestors," the young woman — little more than a girl, really, younger than Maya by almost a decade — sighs in relief, pulling herself up and hastily swiping at the dirt-stains all over the front of her robes. "A more mischievous child than even my little brother. Uh, begging your pardon, my lady."

"Don't apologize," Maya laughs, shaking her head again. "At times it seems as if all parents are meant to be reminded of what we put our own families through." An idea strikes her halfway through. "Satsu, if you please, can you bring tea and a few sweetmeats to the fountain?"

'Of course, my lady." Satsu gives her another bow and vanishes back in the house, quick and light on her feet now that she's not fretting over the youngest member of this household.

For her part, Maya makes her way back to the fountain, where she can still clearly hear her daughter and husband, in the middle of an argument.

"Keep focusing on your breath," Don instructs, voice low and gentle. "A Firebender's power comes from her breath, not physical strength or how quickly she moves. If you want to find your spark, this is how you do it."

"Daddy, what would _you _know about Firebending? You're a Waterbender!"

Even though she can't yet see either of them through the thick shrubbery, Maya can easily imagine the _pout _on Eva's voice, purely by that particular tone.

"Quite a lot, as it happens," Don laughs — and Maya rounds the corner to see him kneeling in the grass, tapping Eva's left elbow to correct her stance. They're both barefoot, shoes arranged neatly at the very edge of the stone fountain. "I trained together with your mother for a long time. Even before you were born."

Eva still doesn't look satisfied and her face falls further at the sight of Maya. Busted.

"And what are you doing out of bed, hmmm?"

"Couldn't sleep," Eva mumbles, avoiding Maya's eyes and looking down at the grass she's currently scuffing with the toe of her shoe. "Was too hot."

"Mhmm. The same excuse you gave me last time, isn't it?"

"S'not my fault that it's hot," Eva keeps it up, as mulishly stubborn as always.

"Let her practice, _anayka_*_," _Don intervenes, looking up at her from his kneeling position. "We're in the shade and she wants to get through this kata." His hair is tied back and he's not wearing one of his modern, Republic City-style suits or even the comfortable robes he prefers around the house. Instead, Don is dressed in his simple training outfit — a light pair of pants and a sleeveless tunic, in the deep, vibrant blues of the Water Tribes, the edges richly embroidered with patterns and stylized symbols.

Maya can see exactly how it happened — he was running through his regimen of katas for the day, waiting for her to join him, as always, when Eva likely saw him and decided to take her mother's place. And Don, of course, was unable to properly refuse her. Not when she went and pleaded and looked at him with those large, golden eyes. Maya knew right from the start that she would have to handle most issues of discipline, because Eva wrapped her father round her little finger as soon as she was first placed in his arms.

"I _might _be open to convincing," she smiles, giving Don a look through long lashes, angling her head in such a way that the column of her throat is properly visible, dyed hair falling over one shoulder. Bringing out the heart-names*, is he? Well, two can play at this particular game.

It's certainly having the proper effect, bright color rising in her husband's cheeks, his eyes moving to the little triangle of pale skin at her collar-bone, barely peeking out of the kimono.

"Is that so, Mrs Wei? Because I have a few ideas that just might work."

He's switched from Chinish* entirely to Inoqa*, pulling himself up from the grass with the quick, fluid movements of a trained Waterbender. The advantage of knowing more than one language, Maya thinks wryly, as her husband makes his way to her, reaching out to run his thumb over her collarbone. Quite easy for the two of them to flirt _outrageously _, without worry that Eva will understand or even pick up anything inappropriate for her age.

They're so close that their foreheads are almost touching — but before Maya can say anything, a loud thumping sound from behind them makes both her and Don turn, as one. Only to be greeted with the sight of a very frustrated four year-old, stomping her foot as if she's an Earthbender at a boulder-tossing competition.

"Mommy, Daddy, you're _supposed _to be helping me bend!"

She sounds utterly outraged too, in the face of being temporarily ignored in favor of flirting, her child's voice climbing even higher than usual. Maya's gentle, amused smile is mirrored on Don's own face, both of them walking back to Eva and settling down next to her. She's pouting even worse now, letting out a few sniffles and then climbing into her mother's lap, when Maya wraps one arm around her shoulders.

"Don't worry, my love," she murmurs, pressing a kiss over Eva's sweat-streaked hair. "Your gift will come soon enough. And even if it doesn't, you will be just as loved and just as precious to us."

That makes her sniffle harder, but Eva does nod her head, burying her face in the front of Maya's kimono. It's helped that they've both been gently preparing her for the possibility that she might never bend, but their daughter is stubborn and determined and Maya doesn't think she'll truly ever let go of the dream of being a bender. Looking up and over Eva's head, she meets Don's eyes and he reaches out, taking one of Maya's hands and squeezing her fingers.

There was always a possibility of this happening, of Agni's roaring flames and La's churning waters canceling each other out, in the same way they balance and moderate each other. When Eva failed to connect with the great Moon-Spirit, all of them kneeling on the ocean shore, under a full moon, her husband had looked _relieved _, more than anything else. After putting Eva to bed, he'd swept Maya right off her feet and twirled her around, laughing and crying at the same time, placing dozens of wild kisses on her face and throat and gasping out _"she doesn't take after me. Praise Mother Yue, she doesn't take after my cursed blood!"_

With Water seemingly out of the equation, only Fire remains. And four years old is impossibly late for a Firebender to discover their spark. But Maya has her mother's intuition and she also has the old legends of her people, that speak of Firebenders who awaken late. Only one or two every few generations, gifted by Agni far above others, able to accomplish miracles, both for good and for ill. The latest one, it is said, was the legendary Lord Zuko, who led the Fire Nation out of darkness and who learned to bend the infinite colors of dragon-fire.

They're all broken out of their rumination by the arrival of Satsu and Hema, one of the older maids, fiercely loyal enough that she willingly followed Maya into exile. They bring tea and black sesame rice balls, Eva wriggling in her mother's arms and grinning at the sight of the sweets.

"Just one," Don says, on a mock-stern voice, reaching out and lightly swatting her wrist when Eva tries to make a go for a second cake. He's rewarded for his efforts with a four year-old sticking her tongue out at him and Maya doesn't even bother to stop the laughter that climbs out of her throat, thanking Satsu between wheezing breaths, when the young woman pours her a cup of tea.

Seven years ago she was meant to be little more than a beautiful songbird in a golden, gem-encrusted cage, the property of a Fire Nation Lord, to be married off for power and influence. Now, she has a family of her own choice and the scandalous, pro-bending career she dreamed of since girlhood. Whatever the future holds, whatever her daughter's gift or lack of it, Maya is certain they can all see each other through it, as long as they never forget to love each other. A far more precious currency than all the rare jewels and all the noble titles in the world.

* * *

**Republic City, United Republic of Nations, 268 AG**

Rick_ 'The Thunderbolt'_ knew it would come to this as soon as Molly set her jaw and muttered "you're not getting rid of me this easy," a blazing look in her golden eyes. Don had been sitting too far to hear, surrounded by the roar of an entire arena cheering for its favorites. But Rick certainly picked it up.

He knew it would come as soon as he went into Don's office to argue on behalf of the little Firebender, only to be met with a sharp rebuke.

"She has almost no control over her bending! At this moment, she's an active danger. Both to herself _and _anyone else in the arena, team-mate or adversary!"

Rick's placating "Then let's _teach _her, Don," had been answered with a scoff and a pointed reminder that his team-manager wasn't in the business of employing either female benders or loose cannons. Most certainly not _both. _

So now, Rick has switched tacks entirely. And because he _knows _what will happen, he tries to convince Molly that just a little bit of patience will go a long way. At least enough for him to avert a disaster he can very plainly see coming.

"Wait for a bit, okay? I'll work on softening the old man up. Find a chink in his armor. I've always been good at that, you know. Just... don't pester him about this anymore, alright?"

Rick is aware of very little when it comes to her circumstances — and is the very first to admit it. Yet there's something to be said about the instincts of a former guttersnipe, who learned to survive on the meanest, dingiest streets of the Fire Nation. Little Mouse might not have grown up among pickpockets and opium addicts and Triad thugs, but there's _something _in her eyes that speaks of pain and mistrust, of being shed and discarded like so much refuse. Whatever her reasons, she's come to their team and Rick is well-aware that if Molly can't make it to the position of reserve Firebender, she'll be sent away without so much as a_ 'goodbye and thank you for your effort.'_

At times, it seems as if she would be willing to sit in front of the arena and sell tickets all day, just to stay with them. There's something in that dogged determination that both impresses and unsettles Rick. Whatever her personal stakes in attaching herself to_ 'The White Wolves of Republic City', _they come part and parcel with the fire in her eyes.

* * *

There's a saying that his mother — may Agni burn her hollow bones — was particularly fond of. _"Don't count your bloody turtleducks until they've good and hatched." _Rick gets a taste of it when Molly goes and derails his entire plan. Perhaps she doesn't really trust him to come through — and Rick can't bring himself to fault her. Not when they barely know each other. Not when she keeps looking at people as if she expects to be kicked to the curb at any time.

In any case, he realizes the thing he was dreading has come to pass when Molly all but comes _bounding _at him, a look of ferocious happiness on her features, pumping one fist in the air.

"He said yes! Rick, he said_ yes! _He's going to give me a test!"

Rick feels as if a komodo-rhino just went and kicked him straight in the ribs.

_'Oh no...' _

That's the trap he's seen five fools fall into, over the last few years. They jumped for joy, thinking they were given a great opportunity in facing off against _'the boss himself', _in a test-bout in the arena. Surely proof of how promising they were in the team-owner's eyes, no?

Except Don Wei has never worked that way.

For as long as they've known each other, Don has always selected team hopefuls by pitting them against other benders of various disciplines, watching the bouts from the side of the ring. The goal was always an eagle's eye-view, from which he could form a fine-grained assessment of a given bender's strengths, weaknesses and areas that could use improvement.

The exceedingly few times he'd gone down into the ring himself? It had always been to destroy someone. Not _physically_, Rick knows each of those idiots came out with nothing worse than bruises and scrapes. Rather, Don's goal was to crush their _spirits, _destroy their pride and ensure they never thought of pro-bending as a viable career ever again. Each and every time, it had been someone Don thought a complete liability for the team and the sport itself. Someone who would continue to be a liability, if they weren't thoroughly disabused of all notions that a future awaited for them in the arena.

Before Rick can even say anything, Molly gives him a quick hug and runs to the changing-rooms with a cheerful shout of "we're on in half an hour! Come watch me!"

For a moment he's completely rooted to the spot, thoughts a whirling mess of_ 'way to keep it under control, good job, Rick' _and _'she doesn't deserve this' _and _'what in the Fire Lord's left nut is Don even thinking?' _Then he kicks himself right out of the stupor and turns around on his heel, marching back down the hallway, destination very clear in his mind. It's not Little Mouse he needs to have a talk with right now.

* * *

"Don, she's just a _kid!" _

"She's old enough to learn a lesson," Don says on a clipped tone, the one Rick knows as_ 'this isn't up for further discussion.' _He's exactly where Rick knew he'd find him, pulling the shock-resistant armor over his torso and fastening it in place with quick, efficient motions.

"And what lesson would that be?"

Rick is only asking for more trouble, after they went and reached a civilized consensus with each other, working together again at the request of the United Republic President. Yet right now, Rick doesn't particularly care about any of that nonsense. He uses his height to full advantage, looming over Don's much slighter form and glaring down at the older man.

"We don't always get what we want," Don answers, voice like two pieces of flint violently ground against each other, snapping both bracers in place, "just because we _wish _for it hard enough! What matters is knowing how to listen and work for the good of a team."

When they'd first met, at a half-dead watering-hole, right on the very edge of the Si Wong Desert, Rick had seen a deep, chilling darkness in Don's eyes. Not unlike those of the veterans from the Great War, that Rick knew from old, weathered pictures. It should have given him pause, but Rick grew up around warriors reduced to murderers-for-hire, around the downtrodden and the desperate and that sort of bleak, hopeless look was nothing new for him.

The darkness in Don's eyes never fully faded over the years and he can see it clearly yet again. A deep, pitch-black sea with no light in sight.

One thing is certain, a lesson learned over their years of working together. Once Don makes up his mind, changing his course is all but impossible and the only thing Rick can do now is try and soften the blow. It never really mattered when _he _was the one benefiting from his manager's ruthless streak, while some fool was left sobbing on the arena floor. But Rick doesn't want to see that happening to Molly — not this brash, brave, reckless, girl, with the heart of a moose-lion, chasing some impossible dream.

If they could see him now, the triad boys would sneer that he's gone all soft, after abandoning his goon-for-hire days for a genuine sporting career. Rick makes an obscene gesture in their mental direction.

"At least let _me _spar with her. You can watch from the sidelines." It's an exercise in futility, Rick knows this, but he'll be damned if he doesn't _try _.

Don merely shakes his head, before settling the face-guard properly in place and securing it with the strap underneath his chin.

"You've never cared to interfere before. Why now?"

_'Because she's a good kid who's been wronged by one too many people and she doesn't deserve any of this bullshit.'_

"Because you can be one cold-hearted bastard when you want to be, Don."

"No more and no less than I need to be, in this line of work."

They used to argue consistently over this, Rick thinking he was making decent headway in chipping through that damned wall of ice, until things fell completely apart. It hasn't taken him long at all to remember just _why _he promised himself that he would never fight for Don Wei ever again, even if he was offered enough money to turn his life into a land of perpetual milk and honey. It took President Zhang's direct intervention to get Rick onboard for this project and now he's thinking that he should've just stuck to his guns and said _'no.'_

Don pulls himself up to his feet and, for a few seconds, they're at an impasse, Rick still barring the door with his considerable bulk. They've never been afraid of each other, not even when things were at their worst. Don never flinched when Rick came at him with a barrage of flames, during their practice bouts and Rick didn't hesitate to stick up for his friend, when some very ugly rumors started making the rounds.

_("They say he's like Amon! They say he can control you like a puppet! He even took someone's bending away, I swear! Touched 'em on the head and told 'em something about finding the Avatar and beggin' for her mercy." _

Rick had been disdainfully dismissive of the rumors — _"if he's been puppeteering people, I've certainly never seen it. You lot need to lay off the cheap booze." _When Don finally spoke about the incident that jump-started the rumor-mill, drinking cup of tea after cup of tea and looking as if he wanted nothing more than to drown himself at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, Rick hadn't recoiled or treated him any different than before. Even when Don had clearly expected and braced for nothing short of fear and disgust).

"Will you try to make me move?"

Rick's tone is calm and level. Shouting will only make Don raise his voice as well and they will have solved nothing, aside for opening up old wounds again.

"Will you give me reason to?"

"That's not an answer, Don."

They meet each other's eyes in silence, the atmosphere tense and highly charged, as if mere heartbeats away from a lightning strike. Both of them know that if they use force against each other, than that's a crossed line that neither of them will be able to take back. Whatever tentative, careful rapport they've started building up again will be gone forever, never to return. And Rick doesn't want that, just as he can plainly see that Don doesn't either.

With a low, frustrated sigh, Rick shifts slightly, clearing the way out. It's all on little Molly now — and the terrible thing is that he's entirely convinced of her potential, but he can't really see a way for her to beat this test. Not in the way Don usually administers it.

"At least do the right thing and use those connections of yours, when all of this is over," Rick says, following Don down the corridor, not even bothering to hide the hard disapproval in his voice. "Find her work or something. I don't think she's got _anyone _, Don."

"You needn't worry on that account," his team-manager answers primly, walking with his head high and back ramrod straight. And while Don can be as prickly as a boarcupine with its spines up even on his better days, Rick's never known him to go back on his word.

Several years ago, _'Double-Leap' _Shinji, a young bender from a bottom-tier team in the Minor League, died in a horrific accident during a match. An anonymous donor covered both the full cost of the funeral and his family's expenses, until they could recover from the loss of their primary breadwinner. There had been plenty of whispered rumors pointing into what Rick thinks is the right direction — _"Poor Shinji died just like _**_she _**_did! She was _**_his _**_champion, years ago...", _but no one had the guts to come out and say it outright and Rick doesn't exactly blame them for that.

It's _just _like Don, he thinks, frowning at his manager's back, to put so much effort into hiding away the best of himself.

* * *

_'Five times now', _Rick counts in his head. He's right at the very edge of the arena, on the first row, the young Avatar Jordan and Prince Aikka of the Northern Water Tribe just a few seats to the left. _'Five times she's gone down in the drink.' _

He watches as Molly climbs into the net that will pull her back up to her side of the platform. She's coughing and sputtering, but otherwise shows no sign of giving up. Perhaps this is the worst part of it all. Loss doesn't come with getting flung out of the ring, as in normal pro-bending matches, but in having enough and _yielding _, when you can't even stand on your own two feet anymore. Rick is used to beating near-impossible odds, but this is quite something else entirely. A Waterbending Master and an untrained young Firebender against one another in the ring? As much as he dislikes admitting it, Rick is an experienced enough judge of fighting-form to know that it's only a matter of time.

Molly settles herself back in her designated spot, a look of mulish determination on her face, behind the visor. At the sound of the start buzzer, both she and Don move, discs soaring in the air. It goes largely the same as before. She doesn't have enough fine control over her firebending to properly control the trajectory of the disc she launches and Don redirects it with little trouble, throwing it toward her right along with his own, via a flick of a water-tendril. Molly is decidedly better at dodging and deflecting the discs, hitting them with quick blasts of fire and sometimes moving quite impressively to avoid an impact, using her small size to her advantage. But one thing always happens, sooner or later. She makes one mistake and gets a direct hit for her trouble, one hard enough to blow the breath out of her lungs. Once staggered, she has trouble keeping up and the hits keep landing — one, two, three, four, until she's been pushed right over the edge all over again.

The very same thing happens now and she goes flying into the water, this time letting out a _curse _instead of a scream. One that makes Rick raise his eyebrows, because it certainly wouldn't have been out-of-place among the triad boys. Molly climbs into the net and is soon enough back in the ring, dripping water and _spitting-mad _. Don, for his part, waits for her with his hands folded over his chest, a closed-off, forbidding expression on his features.

It's rarely ever a question of just _raw power, _particularly when it comes to pro-bending bouts. Rick himself learned that lesson quite thoroughly when, as a much more arrogant youth, he found himself thoroughly iced to floor, unable to move his arms and legs. A bender with plenty of raw strength to draw from, yet very little focus, will always fall in front of someone who is cunning and clever enough to exploit any opening, any vulnerability. Molly blazes with near-blinding intensity to Rick's senses as a fellow Firebender, like a beacon in the night. But she's wasting that power on instinctive, untrained movements. Just as she's wasting precious energy running from one side of her designated space to the other.

Don, by contrast, moves little, employing mostly his arms, deflecting and redirecting far more than attacking directly, turning all of Molly's strength and determination right against her. The two of them practiced together long enough that Rick knows Don has always excelled at _control _— control of the field of combat and control over his opponent's actions. He's using his arsenal of tricks here as well, forcing Molly to run around so she can hope to intercept the discs, methodically wearing her down.

Rick keeps a running tally.

Six times she's been thrown into the water.

Ten times.

By the eleventh time, Molly hits the water with an impressive belly-flop, making all three men in the stands wince, Aikka hissing between his teeth and Jordan groaning out a sympathetic "ouch, that's gotta _hurt!" _

Fifteen times.

Twenty times.

By the twenty-fifth attempt, Rick is starting to realize that she might well last the longest, out of everyone else who's gone through this gauntlet so far.

"Why isn't she giving up already?"

Avatar Jordan is leaning slightly over the edge of his seat, a pale tinge to his usually tan skin. Before Rick can say anything, the Prince of the Northern Water Tribe answers, voice low and tense.

"Because her nature will not allow it."

And doesn't that say everything? Don's finally found someone just as mulishly stubborn as him. If this was any other situation, Rick would've been tempted to laugh. As it stands, his fingers are digging into the arm-rests and he's quite convinced that if this keeps up, he'll end up ripping the chair to pieces. Even so, he won't intervene. Something tells Rick that Little Mouse would never forgive him if he takes away a trial that is hers and hers alone to see through.

And so, he keeps counting.

Thirty.

Thirty-five.

Molly's blown past everyone else before her, breathing hard and swaying in place, well over three hours since the test began. But Rick can see that she's reaching the limits of her endurance. Flames sometimes sputter out completely and she lets at least two discs hit her right in the visor. Her movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, body swaying when she should be firmly rooted in place.

By the fortieth attempt, a blow to the left side of the abdomen makes her crumble in on herself and fall face-first to the floor with a muffled sound, showing no signs of getting up again.

"She's out cold," Jordan murmurs, now all but hanging off the edge of the seat-row itself. Given that the safety barriers aren't up, he stands a very good chance of landing right in the water himself. Rick can't disagree with the assessment, even as much as he wants to. Molly has lasted so long that he himself can scarcely believe it, but everyone has a limit.

Don himself seems to have reached the same conclusion, as he turns on his heel and moves to the edge of the arena, motioning for the two Waterbender healers on standby.

"We're done here."

"... No. No we're_ not." _

Rick's head snaps toward Molly, who is — slowly, gingerly, favoring the side where she got hit last — getting up to her feet. She's still able to stand. Even after all of this, she's still able to stand.

From his vantage point, Rick can see Don's face plainly, a look of shock and complete disbelief over his features. And something far more terrible, a thing of bone-deep _pain, _for one heartbeat, before he goes and slides the war-mask back into place and turns around.

Molly is still on her feet, albeit barely. The way she's moving tells Rick that she's got a couple of bruised ribs, at the very least. Her head-guard is moving around loosely, the strap weakened when she hit the water at a wrong angle. There's blood dripping out of her nose, where it collided with the loose headgear, in her face-first fall to the floor. But she's not giving up, raising her right hand, palm-side up and curling her fingers, in the classic_ "bring it!" _motion.

If he weren't feeling ready to jump right out of his skin, Rick would laugh. Because the Little Mouse_ did it. _She went and put Don in an impossible, no-win situation. He can't, in good conscience, continue the bout. Not when it could risk serious injury due to Molly's utter refusal to back down. The Republic City press might call him _'the southern wolf' _and write fanciful editorials about him having ice-water in his veins, instead of blood, but there are lines not even Don Wei will cross. So he's left with only one solution, precisely the one he wanted to avoid at all costs. Even at this distance, Rick can tell that all of this is going through Don's head as well, shoulders tense, fingers curled into fists.

For a few seconds, all of them hold in a collective breath. Then Don raises his hand with a sharp motion. An _affirmative _motion.

Molly passed the gauntlet.

To the left, Jordan lets out an ear-splitting whoop and Prince Aikka claps his hands, a look of open joy on his normally reserved face. Molly herself stares in disbelief, before a broad smile spreads all over her blood-smeared face. Turning toward the stands, she gives both Rick and the other two a thumbs-up.

And then she goes down all over again, like a pile of rocks.

Rick is on his feet in an instant, bending two thin, focused streams of flame through the soles of his feet. He uses them to launch himself from his seat and clear the distance between the spectator area and arena, landing on his heels, like a trained glider-cat. The noise behind him can only mean one thing — Jordan and Aikka, with precisely the same idea. They come to a landing right next to Rick, the Prince having carried them both across the gap, on a column of water.

They're all by Molly's side even before the healers get there. Aikka's hands glow a soft, soothing blue as he sweeps them over Molly's body and face, while Jordan holds her head in place and Rick works to unfasten and remove the torso armor.

"A broken nose from impact with the visor and deep bruising around the abdomen, due to repeated strikes in the area," the Prince says softly, almost clinically, in the way of a trained healer, palms moving over the left side of Molly's torso, working his mending art. The other two healers reach them and move to act as well, one of them taking care of Molly's bleeding nose.

Rick looks up, meeting Don's eyes. The old man has removed his head-guard, black hair streaked with grey falling in sweat-soaked strands down his back. He's breathing hard, a dazed expression on his features, face drained of blood and pupils blown wide. He's staring down at Molly's prone form and the blood spattered over her visor, as if seeing some old horror all over again.

Content that the healers are doing their job, Rick gets up from his crouched position at Molly's side and moves toward Don, clearing his voice. The sound seems to snap Don out of whatever terrible thing he was recalling and he turns to Rick. Wordlessly, he raises his right arm at an angle where Rick can see the underside of the protective gauntlet.

There, clearly visible on the dark material, is the tell-tale scuff-mark of a disc-impact.

Rick's eyes go wide behind his shades. Not only did she last longer than anyone else, but Little Mouse _got in a hit. _She went and got in a hit against a Waterbending Master, who was setting down techniques for the sport long before she was even born. No other hopeful has managed anything even remotely comparable.

* * *

It takes, by Rick's estimate, far too long to convince the young Avatar and the Prince to leave Molly's side and go get some sleep already. He's heard rumors that the two of them are not too fond of each other, but Little Mouse needing their help went and killed any sort of teenage boy posturing quite nicely. At least for the moment. Rick is far too amused by this. After all, he used to be a teenage boy himself, years ago.

Of course, being a certified adult of nearly thirty, Rick can afford to be a flaming hypocrite and forego the whole_ 'go to bed' _advice himself. He sits by Molly's cot, in the small room she claimed as her own ever since she dropped in on the team so suddenly. She wakes up roughly six hours after the Waterbenders finished healing her injuries, wide-eyed and panicky, flailing around and croaking "did I pass? Did I pass?"

"Yeah, you passed, Little Mouse," Rick answers, voice low and soft. "With flying colors."

He helps her drink a bit of water, wipes the sweat off her forehead with a piece of cloth and encourages her to go back to sleep.

"Team training session tomorrow, don't forget."

It's very nearly two in the morning by the time Rick gets up from the far-too-small chair, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. With one last look behind him, he leaves Molly's room, slowly shutting the door behind him. The hallway is silent and dark, lit only by the moon's pale, silvery glow coming in through the windows. According to all reason, Rick should be following his own advice for once, but he still feels far too keyed-up to sleep, body filled with a nervous, restless sort of heat and energy. And besides, he's got a sneaking suspicion that he's not the _only _person with a bad case of insomnia tonight.

Making his decision quickly, he walks into the team kitchen, dark and quiet at this time of night. Not even bothering to turn on the stove, Rick uses his firebending to heat the water, then steeps the leaves the correct amount of time.

It's impossible to come out of a years-long partnership with Don Wei and not know almost all the minutiae of making a good cup of tea — the man despises over-brewed tea nearly as much as unexpected surprises. All the same, far better he complain about some assistant's shoddy efforts with the kettle, rather than reach for the alcohol bottle again. The person Rick met in the Si Wong Desert had seemed more ghoulish spirit than man, eyes sunken and skin stretched over the skull, hair dirty and matted, fingers trembling from withdrawal whenever the canteen of cheap rice-wine was empty for too long.

Setting the gray teapot and two moss-green cups on a tray (the mismatched set will annoy Don to no end, but he'll just have to deal with it) Rick walks out of the kitchen and climbs the familiar spiral staircase. Just as he suspected, there's a light visible from underneath the door leading to Don's office. Not even bothering to knock, he balances the tray in one hand, opens the door and walks in.

Don is very much awake, sitting behind his desk, just where Rick knew he'd find him. However, that's where the familiar decides to come to a screeching halt.

Instead of working on something, as he always does whenever he can't sleep, Don is simply resting his chin on one hand. He's not looking at anything in particular, gaze cloudy and unfocused, in the way it was those first few months after they met. Before Don went and kicked drinking right off a proverbial cliff. In the corner, the wood-paneled radio warbles on unheard, some late night program (or early morning program, who's even keeping count anymore?) with a fellow who went and married into an isolated tribe of Waterbenders, in some swamp somewhere.

"The world to Don? Do you copy?"

Rick's voice seems to do the trick and Don snaps out of his strange fugue, blinking in momentary confusion as Rick places the tea-tray on the desk.

"I thought you could use something warm."

Don has to clear his throat once, then twice, to get his voice working properly.

"Thank you."

Rick pulls out a chair and sits down, making certain it's the _comfortable _one, instead of the cheap, terrible thing Don reserves for people he wants in and out of his office as quickly as possible.

"Are you okay?"

That gets a small, bitter huff.

"I'm not the person you should be asking that."

Oh_ ._

Rick leans forward in his chair, as the penny fully drops. It's strange — he doesn't recall Don showing any signs of guilt or self-recrimination over those other five he turned into red-faced, weeping messes. Then again, all of them were adults, all of them gave up well before their thirtieth attempt and came out of the thing with nothing worse than scrapes and flattened egos.

"The Prince and our healers did a very good job. She'll be running all over the place by sunrise."

Rick could've come in with the verbal equivalent of an _'I Told You So' _banner and, some still-angry part of him points out it would've been entirely deserved. But the truth of the matter is that he's never really been a spiteful person, at least not with the people who actually _matter _. Hitting Don, when it seems as if he's doing a plenty good job of hitting himself, isn't going to help anyone here.

"Nevertheless, it shouldn't have come to this," Don says, voice growing firmer and sharper. "I should have stopped sooner."

It's almost unsettling, how easily they can fall back into old habits with each other. Before their spectacular falling-out, Rick knew that he was the only person around whom Don allowed himself any sort of hesitation or self-doubt. With everyone else, he was always every bit the hard-faced taskmaster, Republic City's most successful and ruthless businessman. There's something frightful and humbling all at once, about being the recipient of such trust, allowed to catch glimpses behind that wall of ice.

"At least now you know you've found your match."

Don frowns as he takes a sip of his tea and then looks into the depths of the dark liquid. There's an odd, unsettled expression on his features, one that Rick has never really seen before.

"She would have kept pushing, even at great cost to herself," Don points out quietly, tapping one finger against the side of the cup, a note of both horror and something else in his voice, that Rick can't quite name. "Do you know how she managed to get that one hit in? She kept aiming all her strikes for my right arm."

Rick lets out a low whistle at this. Don is left-handed to such a degree that it even reflects in his bending. Thing is, he's made such an effort to conceal this particular flaw that only someone who fought him multiple times or watched him practice often can tell that he slightly favors his left side over his right.

"Even under a barrage of attacks, Molly was able to read my style well enough to see its one obvious flaw," Don continues, turning the small cup round and round on its saucer. He sounds simultaneously vexed and impressed in spite of himself.

"Told you she has raw potential in spades. That kid could grow to become a real star, Don."

"Not with her lack of discipline and even elementary control over her bending."

Don's voice has gone hard again, eyes narrowing. Rick has never known any other manager with such an unforgiving attitude toward benders who don't have their power under the firmest hold. It's not at all a bad attitude to have, Agni knows there have been plenty of avoidable accidents, on account of idiots with poor control and an overinflated opinion of their own capabilities. It's just that it seems to go deeper when it comes to Don, an almost obsessive, personal quest, a drive to prove a point. Even nearly a century after his death, Amon seems to still cast a long, frightful shadow.

"I'll train her in Firebending, then."

If he had been younger, Rick would've perhaps been surprised at such a strong impulse to offer help, when he has his own goals to focus on. Now, however, he's old enough to know himself better. And he knows that when someone manages to wriggle their way into his sympathies, he'll go to great lengths to aid them. This inclination actually served him well out on the streets, where favors were the going currency and the boys ended up loyal to _him ,_ rather than Lee _'One-Eye' _and his penchant for open brutality.

"You have your role as team-captain to focus on," Don warns, frowning at Rick. "The Tournament of Spirit is less than a week away."

"I can handle your tournament _and _see to Molly's training. Have a little faith in me, Don."

Rick leans back in his chair as he says this. If he were in a cheekier mood, he would perhaps try propping his feet up on the antique wood desk, just to get the usual rise out of Don. As it stands, it's in his best interest that his manager no be in a completely foul mood.

By way of answer, Don first closes his eyes, sighs and then takes another sip of the tea. He also mutters something under his breath for good measure, but Rick's knowledge of the Water Tribe tongues isn't enough for him to catch more than _'Yue', _the name of the Moon-Spirit. Don asking her for patience, no doubt.

"Fine. From this point forward, her Firebending training is your responsibility. The Avatar and the Prince are already enough on my plate, without taking into account last-minute preparations for the tournament."

Rick lets himself smile at this, most of the remaining tension draining out of him. He reaches out over the desk and picks up the second cup of tea. "Glad we came to an agreement."

"No need to look so smug about it," Don mutters, over the rim of his own cup, but there's no real heat or bite to the words. Before things went entirely sideways, the two of them used to trade jibes likes this, comfortable enough with each other that it came naturally.

_'She reminds you of Maya, doesn't she?' _Rick wants to ask, but he keeps his peace and drinks his tea instead. There are whispered rumors to this day, but Rick knows better than to put any of his faith in them. Whatever terrible thing haunts Don will come out when his friend is good and ready to talk. All Rick can do, for the moment, is be there for him and lend an ear, when that day comes.

Rick keeps a running tally.

Six times she's been thrown into the water.

Ten times.

By the eleventh time, Molly hits the water with an impressive belly-flop, making all three men in the stands wince, Aikka hissing between his teeth and Jordan groaning out a sympathetic "ouch, that's gotta _hurt!" _

Fifteen times.

Twenty times.

By the twenty-fifth attempt, Rick is starting to realize that she might well last the longest, out of everyone else who's gone through this gauntlet so far.

"Why isn't she giving up already?"

Avatar Jordan is leaning slightly over the edge of his seat, a pale tinge to his usually tan skin. Before Rick can say anything, the Prince of the Northern Water Tribe answers, voice low and tense.

"Because her nature will not allow it."

And doesn't that say everything? Don's finally found someone just as mulishly stubborn as him. If this was any other situation, Rick would've been tempted to laugh. As it stands, his fingers are digging into the arm-rests and he's quite convinced that if this keeps up, he'll end up ripping the chair to pieces. Even so, he won't intervene. Something tells Rick that Little Mouse would never forgive him if he takes away a trial that is hers and hers alone to see through.

And so, he keeps counting.

Thirty.

Thirty-five.

Molly's blown past everyone else before her, breathing hard and swaying in place, well over three hours since the test began. But Rick can see that she's reaching the limits of her endurance. Flames sometimes sputter out completely and she lets at least two discs hit her right in the visor. Her movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, body swaying when she should be firmly rooted in place.

By the fortieth attempt, a blow to the left side of the abdomen makes her crumble in on herself and fall face-first to the floor with a muffled sound, showing no signs of getting up again.

"She's out cold," Jordan murmurs, now all but hanging off the edge of the seat-row itself. Given that the safety barriers aren't up, he stands a very good chance of landing right in the water himself. Rick can't disagree with the assessment, even as much as he wants to. Molly has lasted so long that he himself can scarcely believe it, but everyone has a limit.

Don himself seems to have reached the same conclusion, as he turns on his heel and moves to the edge of the arena, motioning for the two Waterbender healers on standby.

"We're done here."

"... No. No we're_ not." _

Rick's head snaps toward Molly, who is — slowly, gingerly, favoring the side where she got hit last — getting up to her feet. She's still able to stand. Even after all of this, she's still able to stand.

From his vantage point, Rick can see Don's face plainly, a look of shock and complete disbelief over his features. And something far more terrible, a thing of bone-deep _pain, _for one heartbeat, before he goes and slides the war-mask back into place and turns around.

Molly is still on her feet, albeit barely. The way she's moving tells Rick that she's got a couple of bruised ribs, at the very least. Her head-guard is moving around loosely, the strap weakened when she hit the water at a wrong angle. There's blood dripping out of her nose, where it collided with the loose headgear, in her face-first fall to the floor. But she's not giving up, raising her right hand, palm-side up and curling her fingers, in the classic_ "bring it!" _motion.

If he weren't feeling ready to jump right out of his skin, Rick would laugh. Because the Little Mouse_ did it. _She went and put Don in an impossible, no-win situation. He can't, in good conscience, continue the bout. Not when it could risk serious injury due to Molly's utter refusal to back down. The Republic City press might call him _'the southern wolf' _and write fanciful editorials about him having ice-water in his veins, instead of blood, but there are lines not even Don Wei will cross. So he's left with only one solution, precisely the one he wanted to avoid at all costs. Even at this distance, Rick can tell that all of this is going through Don's head as well, shoulders tense, fingers curled into fists.

For a few seconds, all of them hold in a collective breath. Then Don raises his hand with a sharp motion. An _affirmative _motion.

Molly passed the gauntlet.

To the left, Jordan lets out an ear-splitting whoop and Prince Aikka claps his hands, a look of open joy on his normally reserved face. Molly herself stares in disbelief, before a broad smile spreads all over her blood-smeared face. Turning toward the stands, she gives both Rick and the other two a thumbs-up.

And then she goes down all over again, like a pile of rocks.

Rick is on his feet in an instant, bending two thin, focused streams of flame through the soles of his feet. He uses them to launch himself from his seat and clear the distance between the spectator area and arena, landing on his heels, like a trained glider-cat. The noise behind him can only mean one thing — Jordan and Aikka, with precisely the same idea. They come to a landing right next to Rick, the Prince having carried them both across the gap, on a column of water.

They're all by Molly's side even before the healers get there. Aikka's hands glow a soft, soothing blue as he sweeps them over Molly's body and face, while Jordan holds her head in place and Rick works to unfasten and remove the torso armor.

"A broken nose from impact with the visor and deep bruising around the abdomen, due to repeated strikes in the area," the Prince says softly, almost clinically, in the way of a trained healer, palms moving over the left side of Molly's torso, working his mending art. The other two healers reach them and move to act as well, one of them taking care of Molly's bleeding nose.

Rick looks up, meeting Don's eyes. The old man has removed his head-guard, black hair streaked with grey falling in sweat-soaked strands down his back. He's breathing hard, a dazed expression on his features, face drained of blood and pupils blown wide. He's staring down at Molly's prone form and the blood spattered over her visor, as if seeing some old horror all over again.

Content that the healers are doing their job, Rick gets up from his crouched position at Molly's side and moves toward Don, clearing his voice. The sound seems to snap Don out of whatever terrible thing he was recalling and he turns to Rick. Wordlessly, he raises his right arm at an angle where Rick can see the underside of the protective gauntlet.

There, clearly visible on the dark material, is the tell-tale scuff-mark of a disc-impact.

Rick's eyes go wide behind his shades. Not only did she last longer than anyone else, but Little Mouse _got in a hit. _She went and got in a hit against a Waterbending Master, who was setting down techniques for the sport long before she was even born. No other hopeful has managed anything even remotely comparable.

* * *

It takes, by Rick's estimate, far too long to convince the young Avatar and the Prince to leave Molly's side and go get some sleep already. He's heard rumors that the two of them are not too fond of each other, but Little Mouse needing their help went and killed any sort of teenage boy posturing quite nicely. At least for the moment. Rick is far too amused by this. After all, he used to be a teenage boy himself, years ago.

Of course, being a certified adult of nearly thirty, Rick can afford to be a flaming hypocrite and forego the whole_ 'go to bed' _advice himself. He sits by Molly's cot, in the small room she claimed as her own ever since she dropped in on the team so suddenly. She wakes up roughly six hours after the Waterbenders finished healing her injuries, wide-eyed and panicky, flailing around and croaking "did I pass? Did I pass?"

"Yeah, you passed, Little Mouse," Rick answers, voice low and soft. "With flying colors."

He helps her drink a bit of water, wipes the sweat off her forehead with a piece of cloth and encourages her to go back to sleep.

"Team training session tomorrow, don't forget."

It's very nearly two in the morning by the time Rick gets up from the far-too-small chair, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. With one last look behind him, he leaves Molly's room, slowly shutting the door behind him. The hallway is silent and dark, lit only by the moon's pale, silvery glow coming in through the windows. According to all reason, Rick should be following his own advice for once, but he still feels far too keyed-up to sleep, body filled with a nervous, restless sort of heat and energy. And besides, he's got a sneaking suspicion that he's not the _only _person with a bad case of insomnia tonight.

Making his decision quickly, he walks into the team kitchen, dark and quiet at this time of night. Not even bothering to turn on the stove, Rick uses his firebending to heat the water, then steeps the leaves the correct amount of time.

It's impossible to come out of a years-long partnership with Don Wei and not know almost all the minutiae of making a good cup of tea — the man despises over-brewed tea nearly as much as unexpected surprises. All the same, far better he complain about some assistant's shoddy efforts with the kettle, rather than reach for the alcohol bottle again. The person Rick met in the Si Wong Desert had seemed more ghoulish spirit than man, eyes sunken and skin stretched over the skull, hair dirty and matted, fingers trembling from withdrawal whenever the canteen of cheap rice-wine was empty for too long.

Setting the gray teapot and two moss-green cups on a tray (the mismatched set will annoy Don to no end, but he'll just have to deal with it) Rick walks out of the kitchen and climbs the familiar spiral staircase. Just as he suspected, there's a light visible from underneath the door leading to Don's office. Not even bothering to knock, he balances the tray in one hand, opens the door and walks in.

Don is very much awake, sitting behind his desk, just where Rick knew he'd find him. However, that's where the familiar decides to come to a screeching halt.

Instead of working on something, as he always does whenever he can't sleep, Don is simply resting his chin on one hand. He's not looking at anything in particular, gaze cloudy and unfocused, in the way it was those first few months after they met. Before Don went and kicked drinking right off a proverbial cliff. In the corner, the wood-paneled radio warbles on unheard, some late night program (or early morning program, who's even keeping count anymore?) with a fellow who went and married into an isolated tribe of Waterbenders, in some swamp somewhere.

"The world to Don? Do you copy?"

Rick's voice seems to do the trick and Don snaps out of his strange fugue, blinking in momentary confusion as Rick places the tea-tray on the desk.

"I thought you could use something warm."

Don has to clear his throat once, then twice, to get his voice working properly.

"Thank you."

Rick pulls out a chair and sits down, making certain it's the _comfortable _one, instead of the cheap, terrible thing Don reserves for people he wants in and out of his office as quickly as possible.

"Are you okay?"

That gets a small, bitter huff.

"I'm not the person you should be asking that."

Oh_ ._

Rick leans forward in his chair, as the penny fully drops. It's strange — he doesn't recall Don showing any signs of guilt or self-recrimination over those other five he turned into red-faced, weeping messes. Then again, all of them were adults, all of them gave up well before their thirtieth attempt and came out of the thing with nothing worse than scrapes and flattened egos.

"The Prince and our healers did a very good job. She'll be running all over the place by sunrise."

Rick could've come in with the verbal equivalent of an _'I Told You So' _banner and, some still-angry part of him points out it would've been entirely deserved. But the truth of the matter is that he's never really been a spiteful person, at least not with the people who actually _matter _. Hitting Don, when it seems as if he's doing a plenty good job of hitting himself, isn't going to help anyone here.

"Nevertheless, it shouldn't have come to this," Don says, voice growing firmer and sharper. "I should have stopped sooner."

It's almost unsettling, how easily they can fall back into old habits with each other. Before their spectacular falling-out, Rick knew that he was the only person around whom Don allowed himself any sort of hesitation or self-doubt. With everyone else, he was always every bit the hard-faced taskmaster, Republic City's most successful and ruthless businessman. There's something frightful and humbling all at once, about being the recipient of such trust, allowed to catch glimpses behind that wall of ice.

"At least now you know you've found your match."

Don frowns as he takes a sip of his tea and then looks into the depths of the dark liquid. There's an odd, unsettled expression on his features, one that Rick has never really seen before.

"She would have kept pushing, even at great cost to herself," Don points out quietly, tapping one finger against the side of the cup, a note of both horror and something else in his voice, that Rick can't quite name. "Do you know how she managed to get that one hit in? She kept aiming all her strikes for my right arm."

Rick lets out a low whistle at this. Don is left-handed to such a degree that it even reflects in his bending. Thing is, he's made such an effort to conceal this particular flaw that only someone who fought him multiple times or watched him practice often can tell that he slightly favors his left side over his right.

"Even under a barrage of attacks, Molly was able to read my style well enough to see its one obvious flaw," Don continues, turning the small cup round and round on its saucer. He sounds simultaneously vexed and impressed in spite of himself.

"Told you she has raw potential in spades. That kid could grow to become a real star, Don."

"Not with her lack of discipline and even elementary control over her bending."

Don's voice has gone hard again, eyes narrowing. Rick has never known any other manager with such an unforgiving attitude toward benders who don't have their power under the firmest hold. It's not at all a bad attitude to have, Agni knows there have been plenty of avoidable accidents, on account of idiots with poor control and an overinflated opinion of their own capabilities. It's just that it seems to go deeper when it comes to Don, an almost obsessive, personal quest, a drive to prove a point. Even nearly a century after his death, Amon seems to still cast a long, frightful shadow.

"I'll train her in Firebending, then."

If he had been younger, Rick would've perhaps been surprised at such a strong impulse to offer help, when he has his own goals to focus on. Now, however, he's old enough to know himself better. And he knows that when someone manages to wriggle their way into his sympathies, he'll go to great lengths to aid them. This inclination actually served him well out on the streets, where favors were the going currency and the boys ended up loyal to _him ,_ rather than Lee _'One-Eye' _and his penchant for open brutality.

"You have your role as team-captain to focus on," Don warns, frowning at Rick. "The Tournament of Spirit is less than a week away."

"I can handle your tournament _and _see to Molly's training. Have a little faith in me, Don."

Rick leans back in his chair as he says this. If he were in a cheekier mood, he would perhaps try propping his feet up on the antique wood desk, just to get the usual rise out of Don. As it stands, it's in his best interest that his manager no be in a completely foul mood.

By way of answer, Don first closes his eyes, sighs and then takes another sip of the tea. He also mutters something under his breath for good measure, but Rick's knowledge of the Water Tribe tongues isn't enough for him to catch more than _'Yue', _the name of the Moon-Spirit. Don asking her for patience, no doubt.

"Fine. From this point forward, her Firebending training is your responsibility. The Avatar and the Prince are already enough on my plate, without taking into account last-minute preparations for the tournament."

Rick lets himself smile at this, most of the remaining tension draining out of him. He reaches out over the desk and picks up the second cup of tea. "Glad we came to an agreement."

"No need to look so smug about it," Don mutters, over the rim of his own cup, but there's no real heat or bite to the words. Before things went entirely sideways, the two of them used to trade jibes likes this, comfortable enough with each other that it came naturally.

_'She reminds you of Maya, doesn't she?' _Rick wants to ask, but he keeps his peace and drinks his tea instead. There are whispered rumors to this day, but Rick knows better than to put any of his faith in them. Whatever terrible thing haunts Don will come out when his friend is good and ready to talk. All Rick can do, for the moment, is be there for him and lend an ear, when that day comes.

* * *

**Terms:**

**1\. AG** \- _'Airbender Genocide.'_ The year when the power of Sozin's Comet was used to wipe out the Air Nation and the calendar was reset. The start of the Fire Nation's war of conquest on the rest of the world.

**2\. engawa** \- strip of non-tatami-matted flooring, usually wood or bamboo, typical of Japanese-style houses. The ens may run around the rooms, on the outside of the building, in which case they resembles a porch or sunroom. In-story they indicate the Fire Nation touches in the modifications made to the Wei Estate, initially built in Earth Kingdom style.

**3\. anayka** \- term of endearment in the common language of the Water Tribes, used by spouses toward each other. Roughly translates to _'beloved one.'_

**4\. heart-names** \- catch-all word for specific terms of affection between people in a romantic relationship. A concept specific to Southern Water Tribe culture, it also spread to the Fire Nation during the long years of trade and contact between the two people, in the Southern Islands.

**5\. Chinish** \- the name of the common-tongue of the Earth Kingdom, in reality only one of dozens of languages and dialects, imposed across all provinces through standardized education. Name shamelessly stolen from Lavanya_Six's **The Boy From Babel**. Go read it, it's both excellent and hilarious!

**6\. Inoqa** \- the shared tongue of the Northern and Southern Water Tribes. It developed many regional quirks and significant differences, during the almost-century the two poles were effectively cut off from each other.


End file.
